creative non-fiction, Essay, family, grandfather, longreads, memories, stories, toys

Grandfather’s Toys

I don’t remember much about my great grandfather. I was young when he passed away and we had moved away quite some time before that. I know he came from Germany with my great grandmother, whom I have no recollection of. And they probably came in through Ellis Island as I believe that is where most people from Europe entered the country at that time. To be honest, there is almost nothing that I know about my grandfather except a few small or possibly significant things. I know he had a bushy white mustache because I remember it and have seen pictures of it. Much like the mustache Mark Twain is often pictured with. Maybe that is why my heart is filled with fondness at a picture of Mr. Twain in his later years. My grandfather told stories, though I don’t remember them, but they must have been grand because I was told I would actually sit still when he told me one, even when he would shift between German and English. I suppose the language doesn’t matter if the story is told well enough. He sang me songs too. Mostly in German. I wonder if he had as much of a problem holding a tune as I do. But, if he did, that didn’t keep me from listening to him. Maybe it was the joy that sets into a person’s spirit when they are singing. It lifts the fog from the air and can tease a smile from even a fall of tears. But, the one thing that remember distinctly was his toys! My grandfather collected toys. Not just any toys. But, the wonderful wind up, popping, whirling, spinning, clickety-clack babes in wonderland kind of toys. He had circus animals and carnival acrobats and one man bands. Charlie’s Chocolate Factory and Mary Poppins and the Wonder Emporium and scattered about on shelves and tables. And he would bring them out and show them to us, wind them up and send them to come to life before us. Oh how I loved those toys! I never wanted to leave that room full of whirling gears and cymbals and ratta-tat-tats of the mechanical circus. One Christmas, he gave each of us one of the mechanical banks. I remember mine to this day. It had a little monkey that would spin and clash its cymbals when you dropped a coin into the slot. I put every coin I could find, even to sneaking ones that weren’t mine, just to watch the little monkey dance for the offering. My brother was not so impressed with his and I think it got stuck at the back of a shelf. We never did seem to share the same likes in anything, even at a young age, so that was not so surprising. Mine, was my greatest treasure though. I couldn’t wait for the next time to go and see Grandpa and hoped he would at some time give me another of his marvelous toys. I’m not really sure how much time passed between getting that bank from Grandpa and when he passed, but I don’t remember that there were many more times that we saw him. It could be that we had moved too far away by then, or it could be that he passed shortly after. And though my memories of him are very few, I can see that the impression he left on me was far greater than would be thought. He was the earliest storyteller that I remember, him and my own father. They both taught me that time just seems to slow while a good yarn is spun. My mother used to call my father a liar, and maybe he was, but he could tell a good story. So could my grandfather. And from them I learned the pleasure in hearing a good story and telling my own. That one is never too old to enjoy a marvelous toy. My grandfather played with his menagerie till the day he died. Maybe that was what kept him so young and happy till that day when he just didn’t wake up. I have no idea what happened to that amazing collection he had. I wish I had a few of them. But, I have my own collection. They may not wind up and go clickety-clack and bumpety bump, but they bring me my own special joy. They help me tell my stories and show me the spirits in the forest. I can color the grass purple and the sky green and that really is an escaped monkey from Neverland that is frozen in that field and not a moss covered stump. He brought the fairies with him from the Old World with his toys and his stories and his gardens. And he gave some of them to me. SephiPiderWitch 11/26/2012
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